


Your Message

by greenwaterdragon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demons, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 07:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21157775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenwaterdragon/pseuds/greenwaterdragon
Summary: When Aziraphale receives a worrying phone call from Crowley, he wants nothing but to rush to his help. For some reason, the demon urges him to take it slow.Why, for Heaven's sake?





	1. A dreadful sensation

**Author's Note:**

> Still not quite sure if I am entirely happy with this, but here it is, my very first fanfic.
> 
> Constructive criticism of any kind is more than welcome and highly appreciated!
> 
> Thank you all out there for your marvellous and inspiring works :)

Aziraphale was sitting on his desk at the back end of the bookshop. Reading glasses on, fingers carefully flipping over the thin, yellowish pages every now and then, an expression of silent content on his face. Looking at him, one could easily imagine that he would be more than happy to sit like this for days or weeks without ever getting up or being bothered by anything that might occur in his surroundings. Little did humans know that this notion was more than just an idea that crossed their minds, but had been proven to be correct for countless times over history.

In fact, on this day, Aziraphale had not changed his position throughout the whole morning and most of afternoon. Customers had slid into the shop, taken a look around, maybe admired some of the books presented or rather stored in the shelves, but then – for some reason – had not been able to bring themselves to disrupt the shopkeeper in his reading. Curious, wasn’t it? One should assume that a shopkeeper had a keen interest in customers potentially interested in acquiring one of his temporary possessions. But anyone who had ventured into the old-fashioned store had left it bare-handed, yet with a peace of mind that was inexplicable, but all too welcome.

It was only in the late afternoon, as a shower of rain was pounding against the bookshop’s windows, that the angel stirred. A dreadful feeling had suddenly overcome him, but he could not pinpoint its origin yet. Aziraphale frowned. He leaned back and stretched his neck to have a look around in his shop. Everything seemed perfectly calm, yet something was off.

Whatever _it_ was, it was not in his immediate surroundings, that much was certain. He would have sensed an imminent evil power meaning him harm, had it been close to him. No, this was more of a general vibe of dread, coming from somewhere else entirely, that he picked up like an antenna.

Aziraphale stood up, took of his reading glasses, folded them neatly and slipped them into his pocket. Then he took a stroll around in his shop, checking again for anything unusual, finding nothing of course, before he paused in the middle of the main entrance room, uncertain as to what he should do next. With a surge, _it_ grew stronger. He found himself fidgeting with his hands, pondering, as the old telephone at his desk rang.

A realization dawned upon him, as he quickly went to pick up the phone. The feeling of dread did not concern himself. It concerned the person dearest to Aziraphale in the whole wide world and extending far beyond it.

“Hello?”, he answered the phone, growing increasingly nervous and then inpatient, as nobody answered.

“Who is there? Is it you?”, he urged.

He heard a sound, which took him a moment to identify it as a breathing, a rather elaborate, unsteady breathing noise. “A- Angel...”

The voice sounded raspy, the person on the other end was clearly having a hard time trying to catch their breath enough to form scarce words.

“Hnngg...”

“Crowley, what happened?”, Aziraphale pressed on. He clenched his fist, a heavy feeling in his chest that threatened to drown his one voice, but he could not give in to it now, not in this situation.

“Are you alright?”, Crowley finally managed, sounding _reluctant_, of all things.

“Am _I _alright? Yes, yes! But what about you?” For Heaven’s sake, the demon’s nerve!

Again, Crowley went silent, all that was heard of him was his breathing, audible mostly as heart-wrenching cracks in the old landline phone.

“Talk to me, please!”, Aziraphale begged.

“Come to my flat, please?”, was the sole answer, followed by a cough. “But no need to rush.”

He clearly did his best to emphasize the last words in order to make Aziraphale worry less, but failed in his attempt.

“I will be there in an instant.”

“No!”, Crowley blurted out, followed by a half-suppressed whimper that made Azraphale wince in sympathy, “No, really, no need to rush! _Take your time!_”

The way in which he stressed the last sentence had Aziraphale puzzled, but before he could ask any further questions, the connection was cut off and the phone was beeping into his ear.

As Aziraphale left his shop, a taxi was waiting outside. He had not ordered one, but the driver had suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to come here to this very place and even open the door in advance for his customer, who was obviously in a hurry.

Without a word, the driver took off the very moment the car’s door closed and set out straight for Mayfair, towards a certain apartment building. Aziraphale got out and with a snap of his fingers, a quite generous amount of money appeared on the passenger’s seat and the driver was left puzzled as to why she was here, all of a sudden, as she did not recall anything that had happened during the last minutes. The money was all to welcome, though. She figured that she had just transported a rather wealthy, yet boring customer, whom she would have erased from her mind for a good reason, and decided to take the rest of the day off. She turned on the radio before she pulled over towards the street, and listened halfheartedly as the speaker of the news program recounted the story of a bridge that had threatened to crash, yet then miraculously stayed in place just long enough for everyone on it to get the hell off.

The angel hurried over to the entry of the building, the rain drops cautiously evading him as if they knew better than to stain his precious coat, and made a dash for the elevator. As he arrived on the sixth floor, the feeling of dread – which had never left him completely – grew exponentially, transforming into something he could only describe as horror.

Aziraphale was not one to panic. Despite his fretful and sometimes over-considerate attitude, he had seen and lived through some of the most terrifying and agonizing epochs of human history and proved to bear it all with a remarkable resilience. Centuries of plague and murdering and war had passed, and he had been right in the center of it all, attending to those in need. _No rest for the good. _One could not bear that if one was not solid and steady at their core. Or rather, learned to be. But that did not mean that feelings of terror could not befall him just like any other being, when put in a dreadful situation.

The current situation was an apartment door that stood wide open and an overall sensation of pain lingering in the air.

Without hesitation, Aziraphale entered the apartment and looked around in the dark, almost empty hallway. “Crowley?”, he called out, frightful as to if he would receive an answer.

“In- in here!”, came a stuttering voice from the bedroom, and Aziraphale was relieved to hear it and frightened as to what he would find upon following its call at the same time.


	2. The adversary's mistake

As Aziraphale approached the bedroom door, Crowley’s words from the strange phone call suddenly resonated in his head. _Take your time! Take your time!_

What sounded innocent and reassuring when spoken out in a lighthearted voice could very well convey another message when uttered in such an urging, insistent manner. It was this memory that had Aziraphale slow down his steps enough to notice something very small glittering on the floor just at the very bottom of the bedroom’s door frame. With an inconspicuous movement of his foot that could well be mistaken for an unsteady, sweeping step, Aziraphale brushed his shoe over the little something.

Then he could no longer retain himself from entering and gasped at the sight in front of him.

Crowley lay flat on his bed, arms stretched out to both sides and almost sinking into the mattress as if drained of all energy. The phone from which he had called Aziraphale was laying on the floor, disregarded. Upon coming closer, Aziraphale saw that Crowley had his wings materialized, almost invisible as they spread over the dark-as night, silky bed sheet.

“I am going to turn on the lights”, Aziraphale warned and pressed his finger on the switch at the wall. A moment later, he stood next to the bed and took a good look at his best friend. There were no visible injuries, no blood stains, but Crowley’s face was distorted to a grimace of pain and he seemed tense. He was radiating agony in torturous waves, and for a moment Aziraphale could only stare at him with his eyes wide in shock.

Soon, his angelic compassion got the better of him, and he ventured closer to sit on the mattress next to his friend and gently, oh so gently, touched his face.

Crowley cracked his eyes open, giving him a dazed look. His pupils were contracted strongly, almost as thin as a single strand of hair. “Zira?”, he managed, clearly struggling.

“My dear boy, what happened?”

“Was stupid.”

“How?”

Crowley did not answer immediately, but took a deep breath, or rather tried to, resulting in a coughing fit that might have sent him sliding of the mattress, had it not been for Aziraphale who grabbed him by both his shoulders and steadied him.

“How, Crowley?”

It was only then that Aziraphale heard the foot steps.

“Well, for once”, someone said from behind him, clearly enjoying themselves, “he was stupid enough to think he could take on me.”

Aziraphale froze. He did not recognize the voice, but everything about the presence that had emerged behind him basically screamed ‘demon’.

The demon snipped their fingers, and all of a sudden Aziraphale could feel how the tension fell of from from Crowley’s body as a demonic spell was called off. His muscles, formerly stiff and painfully strained, were released and Crowley’s body slumped. Eagerly, Crowley took what was likely his first deep, steady breath in quite a while as he was again in control of his corporeal body.

His eyes, formerly dazed and unfocused, caught sight of Aziraphale and the angel saw that Crowley’s mind was racing.

“Oh no...”, Crowley finally managed, sitting up and starring at his friend in horror, “I’m so sorry, Aziraphale, I am so sorry, I did not want to call you and bring you into this, but...”

“But he could not help but to succumb to my spell and let me _tempt_ him to call his lover to his rescue”, the beast finished to sentence for him, blatant satisfaction bringing a smear-oil-like quality to their voice.

“After all, why only kill one of you if I have the chance to get you both?”

Aziraphale stood up and faced the unwelcome guest, his expression dangerously still.

“And what exactly do you hope to gain from terminating us both?”, he inquired calmly.

The demon raised an eyebrow. “A commendation, of course. Not too many chances to get those, nowadays.”

Before Aziraphale could react, the demon stood right in front of him, grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall next to Crowley’s bed. Aziraphale did not even flinch, but continued to stare at the creature, which was exhibiting more and more beast-like features as they gradually released the power within them which they had cleverly kept hidden away before, rendering their aura undetectable to the worrying and distracted angel. Now of course, it was burning in all of its unholy glory, a red gleam shining over from the other sphere, fueled by the desire to find their superior’s acclaim, eager for blood and success alike.

“You angels are too emotional. You didn’t even notice how you walked straight into my trap. Now it will be my pleasure to end your puny existence!”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“I should rather not think so.”

Without warning, he released a surge of _Grace_, blasting the demon away from him in an instant. The demon was violently pushed backwards as they were hit by the wave of heavenly energy, stumbled and was left disoriented for a few seconds. Aziraphale needed a moment to catch his breath after this stunt, of course, but so did the creature. None of them expected Crowley to suddenly leash forward from the bed and jump straight at the demon, long black claws materializing out of nowhere, mid-air.

Aziraphale watched in shock, as the two demons wrestled mercilessly on the floor, more than ready to tear each other to pieces. Clearly, Crowley had to be wrung out from the nasty spell the other would-be-devil had cast upon him, but the irresistible urge to protect his lover and his guilt for guiding him into this mess stirred him up, fueling him with an erratic energy that had brought him to peak demonic power in no-time.

The other demon had made the mistake of not only underestimating the power of an angel, but also of overestimating themselves. Bringing a fellow demon under their control, even if only for a short time, had taken a toll on their power reserves. Not being all to familiar with Earth and the tiring after-effect of casting spells there, they had counted on having an easy game with the odd couple.

There was a sickening series of _cracks_, as Crowley broke a few bones in the demon’s corporation, causing them to scream in a high-pitched, animal-like voice. “Go back to _H__ell_ and tell them to never, ever bother us or even get close to any of us again!”, Crowley shouted directly at their face, before suddenly flipping them over, exposing their back to the angel who recognized and took the chance to _smite_ the creature.

With another sickening scream, the beast vanished, their body dissolving into thin air, the demonic essence visible as a skull-like grimace hanging in the air for a second longer, before being unavoidably pulled towards Hell.

Aziraphale curled in upon himself, somehow managing to remain on his feet and pushing himself up on his own knees, taking deep breaths in an attempt to recover from the exhaustion. His vision was hazy, and he blinked a few times until it cleared from the dark spots ghosting over it. When he could finally stand straight again, the beast was already gone, faded like a bad memory.

And Crowley was left as a shivering mess on the floor.


	3. What I admire in you

“Oh, you reckless...”, Aziraphale murmured anxiously, as he rushed to check on Crowley. He hovered above him, not sure where and if he could touch him without inflicting more pain. His demon – yes, his very own demon – looked up to him from the floor, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed from over-exhaustion.

“Are you alright?”, he asked, as if this was the most burning question.

“Am _I_ alright? That again?”, Aziraphale snapped, “You keep asking me that, when clearly you are the one in trouble! How badly are you hurt?”

He looked him over. Crowley was severely bruised, his arms and face covered in blue patches and some scratches where the beast-demon had worked on him with their claws, but all in all, he looked to be in one piece. It was only then that Aziraphale noticed the unnatural angle in which his best friend’s wing bent away from his shoulder, pinned underneath his back. “Crowley, can you sit up?”, he inquired. When the demon nodded, he reached out his hands and pulled him up into a sitting position. Crowley could not hold back a whimper. He would have been ashamed to let anyone hear him utter such a pitiful sound, but _damn_, he was hurting. (And he knew that he didn’t really need to hide anything from Aziraphale, although he still had a hard time letting that sink in.) The wing hung down to the floor, rendered useless and dysfunctional.

“Why did you have your wings materialized anyway?”, Aziraphale asked, struggling not to lose his nerve again.

“Wasn’t voluntarily”, Crowley answered in a raspy tone, “Fight-or-flight instinct forced them out, when I tried to combat the spell. Didn’t work out, obviously.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, shamefully: “Sorry for that.”

Immediately, Aziraphale felt guilty. “None of that”, he responded, insistent, yet much softer than before, “None of this is your fault.”

“It really is, actually”, Crowley admitted, suddenly overcome by an uncharacteristic shyness, averting his gaze. That combined with his continuous shivering made Aziraphale’s heart ache. He sensed there was a story there that would have to be told, but now was not the time. Not yet. He sighed, shook his head and shifted behind Crowley so he could examine his injured wing. “I do not believe it for a second. But you can tell me after we sort out this little problem here.”

It was an understatement, of course. He gently touched Crowley’s wing where it connected to his back, feeling for the bones, still causing the demon to wince in pain. “It’sss not broken, isss it?”, he hissed between his teeth.

“No, it is not. But it is dislocated at the prime joint. I will need to pop it back in for it to heal without complications”, Aziraphale elaborated, as calm as possible.

His mind took him back above twelve centuries ago, when he had found himself in a similar situation. Crowley had picked a fight with a rather nasty and astoundingly powerful human sorcerer, who had managed to incapacitate his demonic miracle power with a well-hidden cycle of runes. He had prevailed, of course, but when Aziraphale had arrived at the scene after it was all over, his not-quite-yet partner had been in bad shape. The angel had almost had to fight him to stop his futile attempts to creep away as Aziraphale tried to put his bones back in place. After what was rather unpleasant for both of them, Crowley had lied on the floor in front of Aziraphale, very much like now, completely burned out, and looked up at him in a curious mixture of contempt and awe.

This time, Crowley just nodded to give his consent and braced himself.

It was not nearly enough.

Aziraphale skillfully pulled on the end of Crowley’s wing and twisted it in a precise movement, aiming to cut the procedure as short as possible. With an audible _pop_ sound, the joint jumped back into its socket, and Crowley cried out helplessly before he blacked out.

It was only a few hours later that Crowley regained consciousness. He did not open his eyes immediately, but cautiously reached out with his aura, checking for any undesirable presences.

“No need for that, dear boy”, he heard a reassuring voice coming from directly next to him. Of course, Aziraphale had noticed him probing his environment. Slowly, Crowley turned has head to look at the angel lying next to him on the Queen-sized bed, his blonde hair and bright cotton pyjamas in sharp contrast to the black-as-night sheet. The sight of him on Crowley’s bed never failed to amaze Crowley.

More than a millennium ago – when Crowley would lie in front of Aziraphale after the angel had more or less forced his well-meaning medical aid/butchering upon him – Aziraphale had really had the nerve to ask him if he wanted some food. Because, apparently he looked like that would do him good after what he had been through – to the angel at least. Crowley had snarled, and then, nonchalantly and aggressively at the same time, answered: “Sure, why not?”

Upon that, Aziraphale had pointed out that the nearest inn was a short walk away and Crowley would have to wait for him for a while until he would be back. “Will you wait for me here or will you run off in the meantime, fould fiend?”

“I will wait here, don’t worry”, Crowley had answered, honestly harboring no intention at all to move from his current position, “_Take your time!_”

Now, centuries over centuries later, Crowley was just left in awe, and he no longer hid that feeling behind a mask. He beamed up at his lover, relieved beyond end that he was well and safe next to him.

“How do you feel?”, Aziraphale asked, returning the smile softly.

Crowley took a moment to ponder over that. A quick self-examination revealed that his superficial injuries had healed well, the ugly bruises were long gone. His wing still hurt rather badly, however, and he felt sore all over. His power reserves were rather depleted (which was not surprising – having a spell cast upon you, fighting a demon and then healing yourself did that). “Still a length to go”, he admitted and let out a short cough, “but I’m getting there.”

Aziraphale nodded, his expression showing sympathy and relief. He turned to his side so as to face his demon and started to caress the latter’s face and scalp with a soft hand, gently playing with the red strands of hair.

Crowley enjoyed the sensation quietly for a while, step by step letting go of some of the inner tension he had still harbored unconsciously. Finally, he broke the silence.

“You really understood the message”, he said and opened his eyes again, “You never cease to astound, angel.”

“And that coming from you!”, the angel blurted out, almost cheering, “Even in your dazed state of mind, you really managed to squeeze that _one_ sentence into the message this monstrosity forced you to transmit to me, that would make me pay attention to the right kind of signs!”

_Take your time! _These three words had raised Aziraphale’s guard high enough so that he would refrain from directly miracling himself into Crowley’s apartment, not only consuming valuable energy in the process but also causing him to rush, making it even more unlikely that he would notice the sigils which the adversarial demon had placed at the bedroom’s entrance. Sigils crafted and designed carefully to suppress his and Crowley’s power.

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, not taking it, you’re the genius here. Besides...” He fell silent again.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Crowley?”, Aziraphale asked calmly.

Crowley twisted slightly, hesitated, then sighed and finally recounted the events that had led him to being held in place by a curse on his own bed. The demon had been send to Earth with a mission that involved crashing a bridge, killing a number of humans in the process, and Crowley had picked up on the vibe and thwarted the demon’s plan (Yes, a demon thwarting a demon. Basically the very core element of Hell’s internal social structure.). Crowley had almost gotten away with it unrecognized, but he had been to careless and the demon, angry and desperate for acclaim from their superiors, had found him out and chased after him. Then they had pulled that nasty body-control trick out of their sleeves and decided to set up a trap for the infamous angel as well.

“I am actually glad they did that”, Aziraphale remarked, as Crowley had finished, “otherwise I would not have gotten the chance to safe you. Although… in the end it was you who saved us. Once again.”

Crowley wanted to protest, but the angel cut him short. “Don’t you dare to take any blame for this. Your concern for humans is one of those quality in you which I admire and love.”

Another heavy sigh, this time from Aziraphale. “Although I really wish you would be less reckless, my dearest. Throwing yourself onto that demon like that, putting yourself between me and harm even after what you had already been through…”

“I’m not sorry for that”, Crowley said automatically.

“That I know too well”, Aziraphale said, his voice a little sad, but proud at the same time. As he saw the guilt welling up in Crowley’s eyes again – even though Crowley had claimed otherwise – he felt himself melt, letting go of all of his worries and protests for his demon’s sake. For now.

“You really should rest more to recover”, he stated, looking Crowley over once more. The demon, for once, simply agreed. He got closer to his angel, wrapping an arm and a leg around him in his snake-like manner. Aziraphale giggled and watched as the love of his life drifted back into a healing slumber.


End file.
